


downward dog

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is gonna be funny,” Jim mutters as he slips easily into the bridge, watching Tyler struggle to get himself in the right position. His back is starting to protest the angle as Seguin makes his way over, hands on his hips, pulling his t-shirt tight against what can only be described as an epic rig. Tyler purses his lips and stares at the roof, hoping his thighs don’t start shaking. He’s a professional hockey player and goddamnit does he hate yoga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	downward dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vlieger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/gifts).



> I’m currently 63k deep into writing SGA!hockey fic with **matchbox** , but she’s away on holiday while I’m on a week-long break. I saw Segs [being ridiculously bendy](https://vine.co/v/hnIqxBdvWqu) while trying to write, and then I said to **vlieger** that I needed some new Tyler and his Flyers prospect bro (who is trying his hardest to get back into the harem -- ADORBS!) and what about yoga fic? So, instead of telling me to finish the aforementioned, like a good friend should, she said many chatficcy things and this fell out of my gdocs. This is for her, even though she beta read it for me and helped with its creation. 
> 
> I am not a yoga expert by any stretch of the imagination, and there’s only so much help Google and YouTube can provide... so take all that with a pinch of salt and get through it by thinking of Segs in super tight yoga pants instead. I’ve changed the Flyers season schedule but used real information where I could, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

It’s storming the day Tyler gets a call from Jim, telling him his flexibility is shot to shit and he needs to take matters into his own hands. 

It’s probably not even worth mentioning that he’s lying on his sectional while it rages outside, a pint of melting B&J next to his thigh as he schools the Schenns and G with Rinny and Coots on COD over XBox Live. Jim probably already knows, anyway. 

The dude is a beast when it comes to conditioning and training, and when Tyler slinks into practise after eating contraband (that’s literally what they call anything deep fried, contraband -- it’s insane) he gets the full force of the crazy eyes and usually ends up doing suicides until he pukes. His boys Sal and Ryan are just as bad -- Jim’s training them to be as psycho as he is, and that isn’t gonna end well for Tyler on any level. 

(It’ll end amazingly for his physicality and being on-peak all season, but badly for his addiction to dim sum and M&Ms.)

“What?” he asks instead, eloquent as ever. His mama raised him right and school was tough in Plymouth, but whatever. He’s Canadian, it’s cool.

“You heard me. Your flexibility is shot, you need to work on it more. Go join a yoga class at your local gym or something. Or I can take you through bikram and make you come to the rink on your time off -- I got my certification last week.” Jim sounds fucking evil, and Tyler shudders.

“No, no, that’s fine. I’ll join a class or whatever.”

“Good. I’ll be checking in, Brown. Make sure you follow through, your hockey can’t improve without you seriously working on your conditioning,” Jim says, before hanging up. The spoon slips out of Tyler’s mouth and he sighs heavily as the phone follows.

“Did Jim call?” Coots asks, distracted as he headshots one of the Schenns on the screen, all of them forced to listen to his howls of outrage over their headsets. 

“Yeah, he told me I need to take yoga classes ‘cos my flexibility is fucked.”

“You are legit the least like, bendy dude on the team. It’ll help your hockey,” Rinny says and Tyler growls and reaches for his phone. 

“I don’t even know-- oh wait, apparently there’s a gym down the road.”

“No shit, that’s why we moved here. Didn’t you listen to me when I showed you the list of places?” Rinny asks and Tyler shrugs. 

He’d been too busy liking pictures of hot girls on Instagram to worry about it when they were picking places to look at. Besides, Rinny’s anal retentive about cleaning and being in good locations -- has been since they’d played for the Phantoms together, before being called up the year before Coots to do their time as rookies. 

“Totally did. Their website message board says there’s some dude who runs yoga classes three times a week. I can probably fit one of those around our schedule…” he mutters, trailing off as he gets up to grab their roster. 

Turns out the one tomorrow night is a class he’s actually going to be able to make. Awesome. 

 

*

 

When he gets to the rink the next morning, stumbling along behind Rinny and Coots, clutching at his Starbucks like a fucking lifeline (mornings are the worst), Jim’s waiting for him in the locker room with Sal. Sal launches on Coots, saying something about new techniques for backchecks and Rinny drifts off to laugh in Brayden’s face about trying to camp them, so it’s just Tyler left with Jim, looking way too happy for this time of the morning.

“I found a place, relax. I’m going tonight...” Tyler sighs as he flops down into his stall and tugs half-heartedly at his shoes. 

“Who runs the class?” Jim asks, taking the coffee off him and sniffing it. “This has 2% in it,” he follows on and Tyler really doesn’t want to start crying before he’s even hit the ice.

“Some guy-- Saget? Surfjan? Sey… something.”

Jim freezes.

“Seguin? Tyler Seguin?”

“Yeah, that’s him...” Tyler trails off, yawning as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and reaches for a Flyers one. 

“How the hell did you manage to get into one of Seguin’s classes? The dude is a god in the yoga world!” Jim says, looking impressed. The guy is a drill sergeant on good days, so Tyler just wants to keep that look on his face. 

“I don’t know-- he runs them at my local gym, and I just emailed asking if there was room and he said there’s a few spaces left. You wanna come?” he asks, regretting it as soon as the words are out his mouth. 

“I’ll definitely come. I want to see this guy in action,” Jim says. 

Tyler sighs and nods, standing up to unzip his jeans as Jim spots Hartsy and walks off, taking his coffee with him. Tyler goes to yell, but watches instead as he dumps the coffee in the bin and slings his arm around Hartsy, leading him towards the massage room. 

 

*

 

He goes shopping for yoga gear after training, because apparently turning up in basketball shorts and an old team shirt is sacrilege of the highest kind. Sal and Coots come with him, because apparently Coots needs new gear as well, after his old pants majorly ripped last time he tried the splits.

“Can’t I just wear compression pants?” Tyler asks as they hover outside the Lululemon store on Walnut. 

“No,” Sal and Coots say in unison as they shove him inside. It’s a normal athletics store, nothing weird, except all the scarily athletic and peppy women and men running around -- all dressed in extremely tight clothes. 

 

By the time he’s done, he’s got four pairs of pants and shorts and a bunch of shirts, with a new yoga mat and block -- his old mat was ripped and torn in the corners, and looking super raggedy.

“Dude, their swag is so expensive,” Tyler whispers as he puts his gear on the counter and watches the zeros rack up.

“But it’s totally worth it, and your ass will actually fit these pants,” Coots says, chucking his own shorts and tee on Tyler’s pile and muttering something about paying him back.

“Besides, you just signed a five-year contract extension. The fuck are you talking about, expensive?” Sal chirps as the girl finishes scanning and waits for his card. Tyler flushes and fumbles it at her, watching as she scans and holds the reciept for him to sign.

“Do you know if Seguin offers hot yoga as well?” Sal asks as they file back out into the weak sunlight, heading for his car.

“I don’t know, I just-- it just said yoga.”

“Find out if he does, I wanna try and get into one of his classes. God, out of all the people to land in a Seguin Session, it’s you,” Sal sighs as he climbs into the back. Coots slides into the passenger seat, tapping away on his phone, apparently uninterested in anything to do with Tyler.

“How the fuck did I end up surrounded by you people?” Tyler asks the roof of his car as he stashes his haul by Coots’ feet and turns on his truck.

 

*

 

Jim turns up at their place a half-hour before the session is due to start, and he spends the next fifteen minutes critiquing everything in their fridge.

“No wonder you boys are so screwed. Didn’t you get the meal plans?” Jim asks as Tyler emerges in his yoga clothes, feeling self conscious as the pants pull tight over his ass.

“Oh, you got some Lululemons -- good. Comfy shit to yoga in,” Jim approves and Tyler rolls his eyes, grabbing for his mat and drink bottle.

“C’mon, let’s go. It takes about fifteen minutes to walk there,” he says and Jim rolls his eyes. 

 

Of course, they make it there in ten minutes flat and Tyler’s a little out of breath and sweaty when they get through the double doors and sign in.

“Always have to try and make me look stupid,” Tyler wheezes at Jim, who snorts and greets the girl. Apparently she went to school with one of his daughters in Jersey or something; Tyler just tries not to sweat all over the form as he signs his name.

They head to a room toward the back, where there are a bunch of about twelve people milling around, chatting amongst each other. A guy comes striding down the corridor a few minutes later, apologising for his lateness and wow -- he’s. Impressive probably isn’t the right word, but Tyler’s feeling impressed as hell with his body, all tightly corded muscle and an ass for days. 

It’s not like him being attracted to dudes is news or anything; there’s been guys before, always low-key hook ups in cities he’s passed through, or former teammates who were just as invested in keeping it on the downlow. He’s been sticking to girls (for the most part) since getting to the major leagues though, because being outed isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. He does miss the feel of a solid body against his, though, or dick-in-ass action that isn’t a dildo lubed to the hilt, attached to a bored girlfriend he made sign an NDA before even suggesting it. 

He coughs himself out of his reverie and clears his throat, flushing as the dude -- he must be the Seguin guy who runs the class -- catches his eyes as he walks past, and does a visible double take. Flyers fan, then. Just great. It’s gonna hit the internet in less than a day how shit he is at yoga, and there’ll be chirping until he dies. 

He opens the door and lets them in, and Tyler makes an executive decision and heads right to the back and lies out his mat. Jim rolls his eyes but does the same, and walks him through some warm ups before Seguin starts the class with the mountain pose. He does basic yoga with Jim for his conditioning, so he knows the beginner stuff. They go through downward dog and warrior, before Seguin sets half the class up for the bridge pose, and the other half for the triangle.

“This is gonna be funny,” Jim mutters as he slips easily into the bridge, watching Tyler struggle to get himself in the right position. His back is starting to protest the angle as Seguin makes his way over, hands on his hips, pulling his t-shirt tight against what can only be described as an epic rig. Tyler purses his lips and stares at the roof, hoping his thighs don’t start shaking. He’s a fucking professional hockey player and goddamnit does he hate yoga.

“You’re the new guys, right?” Seguin asks as Tyler bites down on his lip and wonders exactly how long he gets to pretend he’s a bridge before he can move onto geometry.

“Yep, that’s us,” Jim says cheerily. Tyler wants to punch him in his smug old-guy face.

“Tyler Brown… winger for the Flyers… and Jim McCrossin, the strength and conditioning guy?” Seguin continues, and Tyler sighs and flops out the pose. 

“Can I do the triangle now?” he asks, and Seguin rolls his eyes.

“No, go back into the bridge. I’m gonna show you what you just did wrong, which is why it hurts-- bad hurts, not good hurts,” Seguin says, crouching down so they’re eye level. 

“It hurts because I’m not bendy,” Tyler grumbles as he gets back into the pose, starting when Seguin’s hands press against his back.

“You’re too tight in your core, and not enough weight is going on your arms. Your shoulders need to bear more, and your spine needs to be straighter-- here, like this.” 

Seguin manhandles him until he’s right, and Tyler feels less hurty than he did before, but it’s still shit and he vocalises the fact. Seguin laughs, a bright, easy sound and Tyler bites down hard on his lip. Fuck his life, man. He really doesn’t need to be attracted to the guy who’s going to be teaching him to be more bendable -- and mostly because his pants won’t hide his boner if he gets one. 

“C’mon, do the triangle. I wanna see you fail at that as well,” Seguin says and Jim starts laughing as he drops into the next pose. 

“There’s other people in this class to abuse, y’know.”

“Yeah, but they’re not famous athletes who apparently suck at yoga,” Seguin says, and Tyler bends himself into the triangle pose as Seguin walks him through it.

“Take warrior pose on your right side, without lunging to your knee...” he start, and Tyler glares.

“--the fuck does that even mean?” he whines, before becoming horrified at the fact he’s essentially abused his instructor, exhaling in relief when Seguin just laughs at him.

“It means quit your bitching and do as I say,” Seguin retorts, before showing him the pose and waiting for him to imitate. 

“Decent enough…” Seguin sighs, and Tyler silently praises Jesus when he makes moves towards the row of women in front of him. That is, until Seguin bends over and whispers in his ear, “Your ass looks insane in this pose,” and continues on his way. Tyler goes bright pink -- his face feels like it’s scorching. 

“What?” Jim asks, as he drops into the cobra pose that Seguin’s now demonstrating from the front. Tyler notes that his pants leave even less to the imagination than Tyler’s do and holy shit, is he freeballing? 

“N-nothing,” Tyler says, whimpering at the feeling that spreads through him as he copies the pose. He’s going to be so fucking sore tomorrow.

 

The session ends with child pose, breathing in the sweaty smell of his mat as he goes. He’s kind of relishing the burn now, and the sweat sliding down his spine and temples. Jim’s even looking a little pressed, which goes to show this Seguin guy is apparently pretty kickass at what he does. The class is dismissed with the usual shout of “Namaste,” and Tyler rises to his feet, a little wobbly, glaring at Jim when he snorts at him.

“You coming back?” he asks and Tyler shrugs, looking to see Seguin basically doing the full splits up the front, chatting to several of the younger girls in the class.

“Uhm,” Tyler says and Seguin catches his eye and-- fuck, winks at him. Jesus, who even winks in real life anymore that isn’t sixty five and his grandpa?

“I don’t know, I just-- let’s go.” He books it for the door without another glance back.

 

*

 

They go on a three game roadie that ends in Toronto, seeing him slumped in a bar with his buddy from major juniors. He’s not exactly the best company anyway, considering the fact that the Leafs just spanked them hard. Philly have a problem with finishing and holding onto the lead, and Tyler can’t help but feel responsible every single fucking time. He’s not the only problem, there’s so many to address, but it feels futile sometimes, how hard he works and how it doesn’t pay off. G has the C for this reason, and this reason alone, but even with Hartsy and Kimmo supporting him, Tyler still wants to do more.

“So, I hear you’ve started yoga?” Jesse asks from somewhere near his elbow. Tyler grunts and looks up at the TV, his chin resting against his palms on the bar table. They’re playing the highlights from the game, and Tyler gets to watch a repeat of Kessel scoring against them, jumping into a celly with his team as the final bell goes. 

“Coots needs to keep his mouth shut,” Tyler says eventually, and Jesse rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t hear it from Couturier, you idiot. I’m friends with Segs, he ran the session.”

Tyler sits up and looks at Jesse, who regards him easily, a beer at his mouth. He looks… amused.

“Why is this funny?” he asks, and Jesse shrugs.

“Segs said your form is shithouse, but there’s potential.”

“Yoga-- this isn’t something to ‘win’ at or whatever, I’m going because our conditioning coach says it’ll make my hockey better, being more bendy.”

“Dude, you’ve been doing yoga since you were what, twelve?” Jesse asks, and Tyler shakes his head.

“Nah man, I avoided that shit so hard. I never got into it, just did all the other stuff. Never really started doing even the basics until the Flyers signed me and I could barely touch my toes in the physical. I always used to say my body just wasn’t into it, but my flexibility is better than when I started. Our team are fucking sadists.”

Tyler elbows him as hard as he can when Jesse just laughs. 

“How do you know Seguin anyway? Jim says he’s some kind of yoga god or some shit.”

“We used to play hockey together, in minors. He fucked up his knee a few months before the draft and couldn’t get it fixed enough to play. After he got his shit together and graduated from school, he became a PT and then got into yoga -- spent a few months in India and everything.”

Tyler wonders if Seguin told him that he told Tyler his ass looked awesome in triangle pose. 

“Is he gay?” he asks instead, and Jesse shrugs.

“He’s a huge slut, that’s for sure. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve walked in on him with guys, girls -- whoever. I don’t think he really has a definition, he’s just a kid having fun right now.” Jesse takes one look at his face and starts laughing. “Did he hit on you? Oh man, he’s the worst for that. Yoga is fucking ripe for the picking when it comes to him. He swaggers in with his tight clothes, says some yoga shit that doesn’t make sense but makes him look deep, bats his eyelashes and boom -- panties and boxers hit the floor at the same time.”

Tyler pointedly tries not to feel disappointed that he isn’t special.

 

*

 

When he’s back in town, he registers for the next class and demands that Rinny comes with him. 

“My yoga shit is fine, why am I paying--” Rinny starts, but Tyler throws a banana at him instead.

“Have a banana, and I’ll pay! Just-- I can’t go alone man, and I refuse to ask Jim to come again. Please? Just this once, I swear you won’t have to go again.” Tyler is totally begging and he’s even batting his eyelids, whatever. He feels pathetic and he sounds pathetic, but it works on Rinny when he caves ten seconds later.

 

They get to the gym a few minutes late and slink into the back, setting up their mats and warming up as Seguin talks to some guy at the front. Rinny stretches into the splits and bends to the side.

“You’re such a fucking teenage girl, can’t come here by yourself…” he mutters and Tyler grits his teeth and bends forwards as far as he can, feeling the bruise on his shoulder scream in protest. He got boarded by Lupul in the second at some point, and half his blade is purple and yellow still. 

He can tell the second Seguin notices he’s there, because the bastard starts loudly opining about how embarrassing the Flyers form is right now, and how ashamed he is as a Canadian to share nationality with Tyler Brown, their fail of a winger. Rinny starts sniggering next to him and a few of the girls in front turn to glare, and Tyler glares right back and really wants to flip Seguin the bird. Seguin just grins toothily at him and demands everyone drop into mountain pose. 

 

They’re in the candle position and Tyler’s breathing hard through his mouth, using his palms pressed against his hips to keep him balanced, when Seguin appears in his line of vision. Well, Seguin’s legs and crotch. There’s literally nowhere else for him to look, either.

“Your form is fucked, as usual.” 

Tyler swears under his breath. “My back is straight and my shoulders are flat. How is it ‘fucked’?” he snaps, and Seguin rolls his eyes and walks behind him. 

He regrets it instantly when Seguin puts his hands against his hips and moves him slightly, running his hands up his legs and pressing them tighter together.

“That’s how fucked it was. Now it’s better. Still shit, but better.” Seguin walks back around to crouch by his face.

“I met up with your buddy in Toronto,” he says before he can stop himself, pulling himself down from the pose and moving to sit up, crossing one leg over the other and twisting slightly. 

“Oh?” Seguin asks, squinting at him. He straightens up his back and sets his shoulders and Seguin’s eyes get a little less tight around the edges, which he considers a win.

“Yeah, Jesse Blacker. I used to play in major juniors with him.”

“I know,” Seguin says, and Tyler blinks.

“What do you mean, you know?” he asks, and Seguin just stands up and heads back to the class to lead the warm down. 

 

“He seems like a chill guy,” Rinny says as they’re getting ready to leave. Seguin is, as usual, surrounded by groupies and Tyler really wants an answer, but figures next lesson is as good time as any. He isn’t expecting Seguin to break through the group and jog over, reaching out to pull at Tyler’s arm as he’s about to walk through the doors.

“Tyler, wait!” he calls and Tyler stops, Rinny behind him.

“Uhm, listen… Jim got in contact with me last week and said you might be interested in private lessons. I’m super available right now, so…” he trails off, and Tyler blinks. Jim is a fucking asshole of the highest order.

“Uh, sure. I mean-- I don’t know, I need to look at the roster and uh--” he starts, but Seguin cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Jim’s already sent me the season roster, so I’ve kind of opened up some space over the next couple of months for sessions when you’re in town. I’ll email you when I get home?” he asks, and Rinny has to elbow him to get him to reply.

“Yep, sounds-- yep.” 

He flushes deep red when Rinny starts giggling behind him, and it isn’t until they get to the car when Rinny hits him with his yoga mat.

“Seguin’s hitting on you, dumbass.”

“No shit, I know. I’m keeping it professional. Jim thinks this is hilarious.”

“Bro, seriously though. The last thing you need is a gay yoga instructor telling his class how good you topped him last night, so like...” Rinny trails off when they get in the truck, and Tyler grits his jaw. 

Sometimes, God help him, Rinny is such a complete asshole that it really doesn’t surprise Tyler most of the league try and punch his fucking lights out whenever he steps on the ice. 

“I’m not-- it's not like that, douchebag,” he says instead, and Rinny shrugs.

“Hey-- I’m not a homophobe. If you can play, you can play… and all that shit. I’m just saying, somehow I don’t see you as being like, open enough to be with a dude like Seguin and being okay with it, ya feel?”

Tyler definitely doesn’t ‘feel’ what Rinny’s saying and falls silent for the short drive back to their apartments. It’s probably the only reason he opens his email to find Seguin already having sent him something, asking if he’s got space in his place for them to have a class in two days. It’s definitely the motivating factor behind him saying yes straight away.

 

 **From:** tgbrown56@gmail.com  
 **To:** tyler@seguinyoga.com  
 **Subject: RE: Yoga Sessions - Tyler Brown**

Yeah Sunday is cool, I’ll make sure my roommates are gone. Same with Wed. 

See you then,  
Tyler

Sent from my iPhone

\--

_From: tyler@seguinyoga.com_  
 _To: tgbrown56@gmail.com_  
 _Subject: Yoga Sessions - Tyler Brown_  
 _Attachment: phillysched1314.xls_

_Hi Tyler,_

_Jim sent me this spreadsheet of your games and stuff, looks like you’ll have a game Saturday but be free on Sunday for some yoga? I only have a half-hour that day, but can do a full hour the following Wednesday if you’re_ _interested._

_\-- T. Seguin_

 

*

 

It’s easier than it should be to get Coots and Rinny out the apartment for an hour, when they tell him they’re headed to the Schenns for some Xbox tournament G’s putting on. Attendance is mandatory for everyone but Tyler, apparently.

“How come you get out of it?” Coots whines and Tyler knows it was Jim -- has his signature all over it. He just shrugs and says he’s got things for the club to do… which isn’t a total lie. 

 

He’s wandering out from his room, dressed in his gear and pushing the couches back so he can put his yoga mat down when someone knocks on the door. He heads over and opens it to see Seguin standing there, smiling with his mat under one arm and a six-pack under the other.

“Booze?” Tyler asks, slightly stupefied.

“We’re gonna do some harder shit together today, so I figure beer is a good incentive.”

“How much harder?” Tyler asks, and Seguin just grins.

 

Turns out, today is the day he tries the crow pose. It takes him the full half-hour and several other poses to warm him into it, along with some extremely rough adjustments from Seguin before he can do it. When he collapses on the floor, sweaty and breathing heavily, he feels so ridiculously successful that he got his feet off the ground for longer than ten seconds that he doesn’t even have time to feel embarrassed when the door opens and Coots comes wandering in.

“Uhm,” he says and Seguin grins and waves at him from where he’s almost bent in half, holding his feet together and pressing his forehead to the ground between his open legs.

“Hi! You’re… Coots?” Seguin asks, and Coots laughs and nods. 

“Yeah, just call me Sean. Coots is a hockey nickname I can’t escape, so I want to minimise its use off the rink,” he says, offering Seguin a hand.

“You dead, buddy?” Coots asks Tyler, who flips him the bird and moans, rolling onto his front and getting into child’s pose to warm down.

“I feel like I just went ten rounds of sex,” he says before thinking, and Seguin laughs -- a loud, bright mess that makes Tyler’s insides cramp.

“God, you’re such a trainwreck,” Seguin says and Tyler nods and rubs at his face. 

“Eurgh, sweaty. Sorry man, we done for today?” he asks, managing to get to his feet and leaning against the chair. Seguin nods and stands up, rolling up his mat and heading for the door.

“We still on for Wednesday?” he asks as they get there, shucking on his sneakers. Tyler nods and smiles, and Seguin bites his lip.

“I don’t know what Jess told you, but uh… I hope it was good stuff,” he says and Tyler blinks.

“He actually said you’re a huge slut and I shouldn’t let you near my ass, so.” 

Seguin glares. “I’m really-- god, what an asshole. I’m not a slut, honest. I just, uh… I like to have fun?” he says, making it sound like more of a question than it should, and Tyler rolls his eyes.

“You sure do.”

“So, me telling you how amazing your arms looked when you were doing crow probably isn’t gonna help my cause, eh?” he asks, and Tyler tries to hide his blush behind the door.

“Not really,” he says and Seguin shrugs.

“I can play the long game if I want something bad enough.”

Tyler’s breath catches in his throat as Seguin leans closer, catching the smell of his cologne mixed with fresh sweat and washing detergent. It’s-- fuck, so good.

“And I definitely want you bad enough.”

Tyler watches as Seguin licks his lips, before smirking and wandering off down the corridor towards the lift. He shuts the door and leans his forehead against it, forgetting Coots is still there until the younger boy clears his throat.

“So, that was kind of, uhm… sexually aggressive?” he asks, clutching at one of the beers like it’s a shield from Seguin’s promiscuity or something. 

Tyler literally doesn’t know how to respond, so he just sighs and heads to his bathroom.

 

*

 

When Seguin comes over on Wednesday, Tyler’s already warming up and both Coots and Rinny have made themselves scarce, and Seguin is wearing a sleeveless top that shows off his completely wicked sleeve tattoo on his left arm.

“Holy shit, tattoo!” Tyler says as Seguin gets on the floor next to him, warming up.

“Tattoos do it for you?” he asks, with a smile that’s a shade on the sharp side. Tyler just hopes his blush isn’t too obvious as he stammers out a reply. 

“Uhm-- just didn’t notice you had any. You always wear long shirts,” he says and Seguin shrugs.

“They’re nothing interesting. Family tree, guardian angel, some family dates and shit-- you got any?” he asks, and Tyler shakes his head.

“Nope. Nothing worth tattooing on me just yet. Maybe if I win a Stanley, might get the date or something onto my ribs.”

“Bro, that would be awesome,” Seguin says and offers up a fist bump. Tyler resists the urge to preen as he gets himself into warrior pose to begin.

 

When they finish, Seguin is telling him that his flexibility seems to be improving.

“You’re not as stiff when you’re holding yourself anymore, which is good. Next session we can probably start doing a few new moves, getting to the real intermediate stuff,” he says and Tyler nods, wiping at his face with his towel. He’s noticed the same -- he’s sweating less as well, which is always good. He might be a professional athlete, but sweat is disgusting. 

“So, I’m not doing anything now and we should totally go get something to eat.” Seguin says as he goes to stand up.

“Really?” he asks, and Seguin grins.

“Yep. I promise I won’t make any comments about your hotness, either.”

Tyler groans and hides his face as Seguin laughs, instead tossing a towel at him and pointing him towards the main bathroom so he can shower. He watches as Seguin goes, his ass out of control in his pants -- and he’s definitely freeballing again. Tyler digs the palm of his hand into his crotch until the door closes, and makes a run for it to his room. 

If he jerks off in his ensuite thinking about Seguin’s arms, sheened with sweat and the tattoos stark against his skin, and the idea of licking them -- well, that’s just on him.

 

Lunch is weird and awesome at the same time. Seguin doesn’t make any more comments, but his eyes are hot and dark and focussed on him whenever he swipes his tongue over his lip or drapes his arm along the back of the booth, meaning his shirt pulls tight against his body and shows off more bicep than intended. He talks about why he got into yoga in the first place, about his injury and dealing with all the shit that came from that -- core dreams and hopes he’d pinned his life on being shaken up and having to find something new to attach himself to. 

“Yoga wasn’t always the end goal, and I don’t think I’ll keep doing this forever, but for now… it’s good, y’know? I’m helping people and keeping myself healthy as well,” Seguin says as he bites into his ridiculous sub. Tyler nods, trying to picture his life without hockey and failing miserably. Hockey’s the only thing he’s ever been good at, and he’s not sure he could find something else to be good at in it’s place. Not sure he’d want to. 

“You should start calling me Ty,” Seguin says when they’ve finished their subs, and Tyler blinks.

“You just call me Seguin, and I think we’re past a last-name basis right now, don’t you?” he asks. Tyler flushes and coughs, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m just… well, Tyler.”

“You’re really cute when you’re flustered,” Seguin chuckles, fiddling with his straw. Tyler blushes even harder -- he’s never really had anyone chase him like Seguin has. He usually does the chasing, when he can be bothered, and all the people he’s been interested in have been quiet and homely. Seguin is so different from anything he’s ever had, or wanted. 

“I’ve… dudes aren’t exactly like, common for me.” 

Seguin looks uncomfortable. “I’m sorry-- is this, I mean I assumed you weren’t like, against it or anything because you didn’t tell me to stop. Is this bad?”

Tyler, as embarrassed as he is by the attention, has figured that much out -- he definitely doesn’t want Seguin to stop. 

“No! I mean, uh. I’m in a difficult position and it’s not as easy for me to be open, y’know?”

Seguin nods and drums his fingers on the table. “I don’t want to force you into anything, so. Until you’re ready, nothing has to change, okay?”

Tyler nods, relieved. 

“And you’re totally getting the cheque for this, you earn way more bank than me.” 

 

When they’re back to their cars, Tyler leans against his and regards Seguin as he’s reaching into his pockets for his keys.

“You said you knew I used to play hockey with Jesse. How?” he asks, and Seguin finally blushes and looks a little embarrassed.

“Oh… after the first class, I searched you. Well, surfed your Wikipedia page, whatever. When I saw the team name, I rang Jess and asked if he knew you. I was interested in you, shitty form be damned.” Seguin says, and fuck if that isn’t the sweetest thing. Tyler doesn’t even know what to do with that, so he just rolls his eyes and looks at his sneakers, cheeks burning.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta fly but uh… you definitely should call me, and we definitely should do this again.” Seguin says, and Tyler looks up again and manages a nod.

“Okay. You’re paying next time, though. I got this one.”

Seguin laughs and Tyler’s stomach does that thing again, and he doesn’t -- he can’t -- move until Seguin’s hopped in his car and driven off. 

 

*

They’re in New Jersey and Jim’s taking a few of the guys through warms up, and Tyler’s already in triangle pose when Jim starts the others off.

“God, those private lessons are really paying off -- Brownie’s bending all over the place! Bet all your girls are happy!” Hartsy yells from across the room, where he’s taping his sticks. Tyler goes bright red as the others start laughing until Jim shuts them up and gets them started. 

He stops by Tyler, who’s in bridge now and looking up at him, waiting for some sort of stupid comment as well. He’s used to them by now, and he’s got at least three texts sitting unread on his phone from Ty that he really wants to look at. 

He’s already told Tyler he’s flying to New York soon to take a couple week’s worth of Seguin Sessions at various gyms there -- he signed some crazy deal with the franchise and has to go all over the country -- but he’ll be back in Philly by the time their next roadie finishes.

“Hartsy’s right, you’re getting better. It’s good to see,” is all Jim says, before moving on to bitch out Rinny for his crappy posture. Tyler grins so hard his cheeks hurt.

 

*

 

Turns out that Jesse’s birthday falls when he’s on IR, fucking up his knee pretty badly during a fight. He’s had to cancel on Ty for yoga for a few weeks, which makes him feel like shit, but Ty’s super understanding about it and they e-mail and text each other constantly.

He’s started sending Tyler pictures of himself during class, or when he’s working out, half-naked and flaunting his ridiculous body. He’s lost count of the times he’s jerked off to the pictures and Instagrams and Snapchats, some more risqué than others, and fuck it if he isn’t -- if he doesn’t want. He wants so bad, he doesn’t even give a shit anymore. 

When he arrives in Toronto and limps on his crutches to the nearest taxi, getting in and giving Jesse’s address, he realises he’s forgotten to ask Ty if he’s coming as well. When he gets to the house, the party in full swing and Jesse well and truly ticking along, it doesn’t take him long to find Ty -- and Ty’s latest conquest, if his hand on her ass is anything to go by as they pose for a photo.

He feels like-- fuck, he feels like a fucking idiot, and when Ty turns to see him, he knows he can see it on his face, the way his hand drops from the girl and he starts trying to make his way through the crowd of people. 

Tyler escapes to Jesse’s bedroom upstairs, sitting on the edge of the bed to stare out over Toronto and waits for Ty to find him.

“Tyler, I--” Ty starts, and Tyler glares at him.

“Fuck you, Jesse was right. I’ve been a fucking moron thinking otherwise!” he snarls.

Ty wilts. “It’s not like that. I’m-- I’m handsy, especially when I’m drinking. I promise you there was nothing to it, though. It was just posing for a picture, and my hand ended up somewhere stupid. I’m crazy for you, you have no idea-- I’ve spent the past like, hour just talking to everyone about you. Come with me, just ask anyone, I swear!”

Tyler doesn’t stop glaring, but he rolls his eyes and looks back out at the city, stiffening when Ty comes to sit down next to him. He smells amazing, and looks even better in tight jeans and a striped shirt, his tattoos in full force and a few days worth of stubble on his face. Tyler idly wonders for a beat how it’d feel, burning along the inside of his thighs. Fuck no, focus.

“I really, really like you, Tyler. You have no idea, and I swear I haven’t -- and I wouldn’t -- cheat on you. Even if we are a secret.”

His fingers edge along the bed until they bump into Tyler’s, and he tangles them together, exhaling shakily.

“This is so dumb,” he says and Ty snorts.

“Fuckin’ rights it is. But hey, at least you get to see how bendy I really am now?” he chirps, and Tyler bites back a moan as he leans in, slowly and surely. He’s been waiting far too long for this.

They’re kissing, breathless and crazy, when Jesse finds them on his bed and starts yelling about people being disrespectful and trying to fuck on his brand new Egyptian cotton sheets. Ty’s shirt is off, thrown somewhere near the door and Tyler’s pants are undone enough for Ty to get his hand in, and Tyler is so fucking done with this shit. 

He can honestly say that when he offers Jesse $5,000 to fuck off for a half-hour, he doesn’t regret it at all when Jesse blanches, obviously fighting the need to yell at them for his sheets versus the payday, which ends with his greed winning and shutting the door loudly behind him.

“I’m a $5,000 lay?” Ty asks, chest heaving as Tyler wriggles underneath him to push his jeans down, kicking down Ty’s as well. 

Tyler shrugs and reels him back in, his cheeks and jaw stinging from the beard burn and knowing full well Ty’s is too, given how red his face is going under his stubble.

“Probably more than that, we’ll see.”

 

*

 

His next yoga session is done at the gym instead, which is only asking for trouble. 

It’s been two weeks since Jesse’s birthday and Tyler’s knee is fully healed, on top of which Coach actually comments on his improvement; how his conditioning and skill set are getting better, and Tyler almost dies as Jim chirps him hard about having a great teacher. 

Ty’s in a shirtless tank again, with tight shorts and the class is crazy full -- at least it means Tyler will be spared the leers and gropes he’s been getting in his private classes since. 

Of course, he’s completely discounting the fact that a) it’s Tyler Seguin, b) it’s Tyler Seguin with endorphins streaming through him and c) it’s Tyler Seguin taking a class full of Philadelphia Flyers, upon Jim’s insistence.

So, he’s in the downward dog pose and counting his breathing when Ty’s sneakers appear in his periphery, and he makes a comment about Tyler’s pose being all wrong.

“What, it’s--” Tyler starts, before Ty grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes. He can’t help the sharp intake of air, and the thrill that races through him as Ty’s other palm rests on his lower back and he presses down, straightening whatever imaginary kinks are there.

“Much better,” he says and walks off to harass G about his posture, leaving Tyler red-faced and sporting a half chub while Coots and Rinny snigger on either side of him. Unbelievable.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [dumbpigeons](http://dumbpigeons.tumblr.com).


End file.
